That great blue heron is still stalking the meadow behind the house. This morning it was so close to the house that I stalked it, carefully shielding myself behind the tall grasses at the edge of the field. It was in a “striking” pose, head lowered and neck curved down and forward, watching for some prey to show itself.

My camera was out and aimed, but the bird was still masked by the tall sedges, so one more step was needed for a clear shot, regretfully a step too close. The heron spread its massive wings, their beats echoing softly as they carried the rest of the bird a bit farther away to resume the hunt in peace.

I retreated to the shade of the giant willow tree that still towers over the house. This spot has a clear northern exposure, giving a view of half the sky. A jungle of small trees and brush now grows here where a beaver pond once shimmered with wetland life.

During fall this scene offers daily sightings to one with a little patience. Fall begins in late August for a finder of migrating birds, but only the day-flyers can be seen from here. The night-flyers are hidden, except for their voices, which are drowned out by singing insects.

Already some swallows have returned from the wet staging areas along the larger rivers, and swifts have wandered here from old smokestacks in the city. Together they patrol the skies for easy prey, masses of hatching insects that rise in the early evening to court and mate.

These insects also attract flocks of nighthawks migrating south. These larger, long-winged flyers put on quite a show a few nights earlier, dozens dancing up, down, and sideways in erratic paths, snatching clusters of bugs in their enormous mouths.

Nighthawks occur now each evening anywhere in the valley, especially near the river. Our club has a nighthawk watch in Longmeadow, not far from the sandbar where other August migrants rest and feed.

Each summer the sandbar has been a beacon to shorebirds that migrate down the river to the sea, and also a welcome source of insects and worms. A little such food serves to keep the wings beating until the rich pantry of the seashore is reached.

On a recent visit there, we found a small, squat shorebird called the semipalmated plover as well as a taller, slimmer lesser yellowlegs. This bird stood still at the edge of the water, not doing the usual fast-paced foraging. Every dozen seconds it gave one or two quiet whistles, perhaps a sign of restless alert.

Suddenly a second lesser yellowlegs arrived, flying near the first, which took to the air. They flew loosely together, slowly heading north and rising higher, circling occasionally and calling to each other. Eventually, both the birds and the calls faded in the distance.

The sandbar was now empty, so we looked farther afield, scanning the south end of the island, where a dead tree stood stark against the sky. A peregrine falcon was perched there, certainly the same bird that had flown south in front of us as we emerged from the trees at the river’s edge.

A hungry peregrine will hunt down and try to capture any bird that it finds, especially smaller shorebirds, its favorite prey. It prefers to pick out single birds to pursue, often working to separate one bird from a flock.

Perhaps the behavior of the lesser yellowlegs was a result of the peregrine’s presence. Seeing the hunter pass by, the shorebird knew enough to stay still, camouflaged against the sand. The single soft call notes may have served as an instinctive warning.

The arrival of the second shorebird gave it the courage to fly, hoping that the two together would not be pursued. It might also explain why the birds had gone high and northward, away from where the peregrine was perched.

After this adventure, we headed for the marshes not far away, where we found the usual green herons and great blue herons. None were as close as the one that hunted in my backyard this morning.